


The Untenable Rightness of Wrong

by random_nic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 21:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10396521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_nic/pseuds/random_nic
Summary: John has a lot to atone for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first writing venture in this fandom. Season 4 left me feeling some type of way; this is the result.

A sliver of Sherlock's pale face was illuminated by a stray beam of moonlight as he slept. A single curl fell across one eye, making John's hand itch to brush it away. He didn't, knowing Sherlock would instantly wake from his uneasy slumber at any hint of touch. John would wait. It wouldn't be long.  
  
Sherlock didn't sleep well in the best of circumstances, but neither of them had found a peaceful rest in the days since the disquieting Eurus affair. John mentally chided himself. "The Disquieting Eurus Affair" sounded like what the detective would deem one of John's more insipid blog titles. And what they'd experienced at the hands of Eurus went significantly beyond "disquieting."  
  
It was nothing less than abject torture.  
  
At the thought of torture, John's mind went back — as it did persistently, incessantly — to Sherlock's "missing" years. They'd been hell for John. That the death turned out to be a charade didn't negate that for two years, the most important person in his life was gone.

Beyond the ordeal of his own mourning, though, lay the mystery of what Sherlock had been through in his quest to decimate Moriarty's network. He never spoke of that time, and John never pressed him to. John was, quite simply, petrified of what he might learn.  
  
In failing to ask, John spared himself the confirmation Sherlock had endured unspeakable trauma during his mission. There was no way to accomplish what he had without having suffered. John staunchly clung to his ignorance to protect himself from the gravity of any such revelations. Sherlock had done it for him; John couldn't shoulder any more guilt on that score than he already carried.

When Sherlock returned, John had inevitably reacted to his own pain by attacking him. His heart constricted at the recognition _it was what he did._ It was what he always did. Still, Sherlock forgave, and Sherlock stayed, and Sherlock withstood whatever else John had to throw at him.  
  
And John could throw anything at Sherlock. Insults, indictments... punches. God, could he throw punches, and on multiple occasions, he did.  
  
In return, Sherlock never struck back. Not with his hands, and not with his heart. He never rightly condemned John's behavior. Sherlock claimed himself a sociopath, but never suggested John was a psychopath, something John himself occasionally wondered.

 _Why_ couldn't he control his violent impulses? He knew he wasn't a literal psychopath, but the compulsion to inflict pain that occasionally overtook him was horrifying. Worst of all, Sherlock was often his chosen target.  
  
This couldn't continue. How many times would John have to almost lose the man to stop treating him in this manner? After all they'd been through, it was nothing less than a miracle that they were here now — alive and together. For John, this had to be the tipping point, because Sherlock didn't seem to have one. John would not permit himself to abuse his friend anymore.  
  
He belatedly realized he'd cleared his throat to fight back raw emotion when Sherlock stirred. John cursed inwardly at providing enough disturbance to awaken him. He'd wanted extra time to collect himself, but there was no more putting off the discussion they should have had long ago.  
  
"What time is it?" Sherlock questioned, immediately spotting John in the nearby chair.  
  
The doctor couldn't help a half-smile at the query. Anyone else would have led with "why are you watching me sleep?" Anyone _ordinary_ , anyway.  
  
"Nine, I think."  
  
Sherlock briefly rubbed one eye. He'd slept only an hour, but felt disoriented. It was unheard of for Sherlock to collapse into bed at eight o' clock, but sleep deprivation had won out. Even with the Mycroft-arranged perk of a round-trip helicopter for the day's trip to Sherrinford, he was depleted upon his return. Though he felt out of place in the guest room of John's house, he'd relaxed enough to sleep, confident he'd hear when John and Rosie arrived home from Molly's. That he hadn't led to a natural deduction.  
  
"Where is Rosamund?"  
  
John's half-smile melted into a full one, both at his friend's typical use of Rosie’s full name, and because of course Sherlock would instantly deduce. "With your parents."  
  
"Where are we going?" John's statement was so inexplicable, Sherlock asked before even trying to work out the answer. His uncharacteristically sleep-sluggish brain began to catch up as he studied John’s face in the moonlit room. Sherlock bolted upright in the bed, now fully awake. _Stupid_. “Where are _you_ going?” he demanded in a voice tinged with not a little panic.  
  
“Rehab, of a sort.”  
  
Sherlock’s deductions were flying fast and furious. Pushing aside the “rehab” comment for a moment (because what the _hell_ ), he worked out several things. Mycroft knew about this - whatever _this_ was. It was why Sherlock had been allowed to visit Eurus for a second consecutive day, after having taken his parents with Mycroft the day before. It was why the government helicopter had been provided again (something Sherlock hadn't expected without his family along for the trip). And John chose to leave Rosie with Sherlock’s parents because he meant to be gone for more than a few days, and knew the Holmes estate was awash in discreet government security since the Magnussen stunt they'd pulled under Mycroft’s nose.  
  
“You wanted me out of the way.”  
  
John sighed. “I needed to get Rosie settled before having this out with you.”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You've planned a row for us? Should I be touched?”  
  
John knew the caustic tone was employed to mask bewilderment and hurt. “Sherlock, I need you to let me say what I have to, without debate, commentary, or interruption. If I don’t do this now, I may never have the courage again. _Please_.”  
  
John’s words only strengthened the ball of anxiety and mounting terror in chest, but Sherlock nodded. He couldn’t refuse anything John needed. He felt like a man on the precipice of his own execution, but silently awaited the inevitable.  John would tell him this last harrowing episode was a bridge too far, and for Rosamund’s safety, they would have to part ways.  
  
John took in a deep breath. “I am so very sorry, Sherlock. For all of it. For every time I’ve ever let you down, every time I’ve hurt you, every time I was so much less of a man than I should’ve been-”  
  
“Enough,” Sherlock cut in with irritation, then remembered he’s promised not to do just that. He hadn’t expected part of the deal he’d made was to hear John malign himself sans opposition, and doubted he could uphold his end of the bargain.  
  
“Please,” John repeated, understanding how badly Sherlock wanted to interject, but determined not to allow it. “I know you don’t see it. You, who deduces everything there is to know about everyone else, refuse to see the truth about me.”  
  
“What you’re saying _isn’t_ true-”  
  
“Sherlock,” John said simply. “You promised.”  
  
Though Sherlock fell silent, the war within him raged. The detective badly wanted to _act_ , in some way - to stop John’s self-flagellation and John’s departure and anything and everything that was making all of this happen. Unable to do any of the above without breaking another vow to John, he settled on folding his arms tightly across his chest.  
  
It broke John’s heart to realize Sherlock wasn’t exhibiting annoyance through the action as others might have judged, but rather holding on to steel himself from potentially painful revelations.  
  
Hoping to reassure the other man, John went on with his true purpose.  “I need to learn to control my anger. Ella tried to help, but I stopped seeing her when I met you. Because with you I felt so many other things, I thought the rage had died down. It was easy to ignore when I had adventure, friendship... happiness."  
  
Sherlock no longer struggled to stay quiet. John's words were so unforeseen, there were too many possible outcomes to even grasp at all the potential deductions. He had made John _happy_? His head spinning, Sherlock listened as John continued.

"When you were gone, the rage mixed in with so many other things, it hardly seemed significant. Then you came back, and no matter how violent my outbursts, you didn’t react. I let myself believe it wasn't that bad.

That wasn’t true. Because you absolved me, I tried to let it be okay. Sherlock, it's not okay. I never should've blamed you for things you couldn’t control. I never should've broken off contact and frozen you out. And I never, _never_ should have laid my hands on you.”  
  
Sherlock could only watch in misery as John’s eyes began to glisten, a tear spilling over one cheek. He was startled when John reached over to him, taking one of the hands gripping Sherlock’s arms and placing it within his own. It felt warm, right, and exceedingly unfair he was being afforded this contact only under the umbrella of a painful goodbye.  
  
“I spoke with Ella yesterday. She recommended a private facility near Hampshire,” John continued. “One of those throw-you-into-nature-to-eliminate-distraction deals. My job for the next few weeks is working through this rage. Or learning how to live with it without hurting the people I love.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand to emphasize his point.  
  
Sherlock was afraid to dare speculate on the particulars of that love. Sensing he was now free to comment but unable to beg John to stay, he doltishly replied, “Won’t that be expensive?”  
  
John emitted a sudden snort. “The treatment center may be under the impression they’re providing a valuable service to the Crown.”  
  
Again, Sherlock was stumped. “Why would Mycroft arrange that?”  
  
John released Sherlock’s hand to lean back in his chair, running his hands over his face to wipe away the residual tear. “I imagine he’s tired of me assaulting his brother.”  
  
Sherlock blinked. “You weren’t responsible; Mary died and it was-”  
  
“Not. Your. Fault.” John knew Sherlock had assumed they’d covered the difficult bit, when they’d barely scratched the surface. “Stop excusing what I did. If you excuse it, I will. I can’t do that and get past this. You know it wasn’t the first time.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes rolled comically hard in his head; at least, it would’ve been comical in a lighter moment. “I let you think I was dead, and told you the truth in the most ridiculous way possible. Which, again, sorry-”  
  
“Time for you to be quiet again.” At Sherlock’s hybrid look of consternation and surprise, John continued. “I'm not finished. And what's left isn’t going to be any easier.”  
  
Sherlock hadn’t thought his stomach could drop any further. So he’d been right to begin with; this was their end. “Go on,” he offered in pained resignation.  
  
“I need you to know the truth about why I blamed you. This will be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say out loud, so anything you can do not to interrupt would be good.”  
  
The only thing Sherlock wanted to say was _spit it out_ , because the slow build was excruciating. He wondered why their relationship — something so unexpected yet exciting, fulfilling, and ultimately integral to his very being —could never just be left in peace. Why did the miserable world have to throw its every conceivable obstacle at them?  
  
“In the moment Mary died,” John went on with obvious difficulty. “I felt so many brutal, unbearable things. It wasn’t surreal; not like when you died and I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it.  
  
I felt her death immediately. I knew in that instant she was no more. No more wife to me, no more mother for Rosie, no more Mary to anyone for anything, ever again.  
  
I’d promised her a life together, but sent her on ahead of me that night. When she died, on top of the anguish and loss, there was so much guilt.”  
  
John stopped for a moment to take a breath, and risking it, Sherlock inserted, “Survivor’s guilt is normal, John.”  
  
“I wish it were only that. But mixed in with all that pain was something else.” John paused again, and the dread in his face told Sherlock the _very hard thing_ John needed to say was imminent. “I felt relief. Not that she was gone, of course. But in the midst of everything, I was relieved you weren’t shot.”  
  
“That’s only natural.” He couldn’t have John struggling with unnecessary guilt for having spared a thought for Sherlock in that moment. “You’d lost your wife; of course you wouldn’t have wanted to lose your friend, as well.”  
  
“You don’t understand," John shook his head, wanting never to speak his next words, but knowing it was the only hope to escape his torment.  "I didn’t think 'thank God you weren’t killed, too.'  
  
I thought, 'thank God it wasn’t you _instead'._ ”


End file.
